


Lonely With You

by jellybeanforest



Series: The Road Not Taken [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcoholism, Bisexuality, Brothels, Canon-Compliant through Infinity War, Emotional Constipation, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Kraglin attempts to bro-bond with Nebula, Learning to live again, Nebula-Centric, Past Bugborg, Past Kragdu, Post Infinity War, Slowburn Kragula, Widowhood, learning to love again, revenge quest, second love, suicide mission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 19:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17534831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: With nothing left to lose and even less to live for, Nebula and Kraglin embark on a suicide mission to hunt down Thanos and avenge their siblings’ deaths. Along the way, they unexpectedly rediscover a reason to live on in each other.





	Lonely With You

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to “Highway to Hell” no one asked for, and the second installment of a planned three-part Infinity War/GotG2 fix-it series. It can be read alone as post-Infinity War slowburn Kragula (with past Bugborg and Kragdu). It’s not absolutely necessary you read the pre-Kragula oneshot first, but as a recap, Kraglin gives Nebula and Tony Stark a lift back to Earth in the aftermath of the snap. Kraglin and Nebula end up (platonically) sharing a bed together as both deal with the loss of their siblings. This series is going to expand on that. The main plot is ostensibly about revenge, but it’s primarily a story of finding comfort and love after widowhood.
> 
> All chapter titles will be from Lovelytheband's "Broken," because that's pretty much my Kragula anthem.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kraglin and Nebula embark on their quest for revenge. Neither expects to come out of it alive.

Nebula has seen many worlds, from the wastelands of her father’s shadow realms to the floating gardens of Pandeshima where glass-winged dragonfaeries alight feather-soft on the tips of velvety waterlillies, but she has never seen something as serene and breathtakingly beautiful as Mantis in this moment.

Mantis is lying on her back, lips parted and slack face turned towards Nebula. She pops one eye open then graces her lover with a lopsided grin.

“What?” Nebula asks.

“You’re steel and starlight,” Mantis tells her quietly, smoothing one palm up Nebula’s arm to lightly stroke her cheek. Her touch is warm and baby-soft and oh-so-alive, a stark contrast to Nebula’s cool synthetic skin grafted over cybernetic limbs. She yawns, eyes scrunching small and mouth gaping wide to show the sharps of her incisors. “Being with you is peaceful.”

“No one has ever accused me of being ‘peaceful,’” Nebula’s voice is gruff but tender as she cups the wandering hand, stilling its progress.

Mantis flips over, draping her other arm across her lover’s midsection, planting lazy kisses along her naked shoulder.  “Everyone else is just so loud, but not you.”

Though the Guardians can be a rowdy bunch, Nebula knows she isn’t referring to auditory stimuli.

If Mantis is not careful, a clasp of fingers across another’s skin in the heat of the moment may overwhelm her with foreign emotions compounding and amplifying her own until she’s a quivering, incoherent mess, but she can relax with Nebula, whose mechanical body is largely immune to her empathic powers. Those fingers ghost over her now, gentle and soothing, tickling her sides, a faint whisper of their fevered nights together. Her short fingernails scrape feather light in circles where in hours past they had pressed half-moons in Nebula’s back.

The marks will fade not too long after Nebula leaves again, her dogged determination to hunt down her father often taking her to far-flung corners of the Galaxy.

“You’ll come back for me, won’t you?” Mantis murmurs, drifting off into light sleep, the corner of her mouth upturned in a slight smile.

“Of course.” She’ll always come back for Mantis, but she must do this. For her family, for herself. Before he kills them all. Before he kills–

Mantis’s arm fizzles, phasing out of focus, her skin blackening and flesh falling away like sand.

Or ash.

“No-no-no!” Nebula screams, frantically trying to gather her up, to keep Mantis together, but she collapses in on herself, running over Nebula’s body in dry wispy rivulets, dissolving to nothing.

“Mantis!”

Nebula starts from her slumber, sitting ramrod straight, cold sweat dampening her brow before she registers the familiar weight of an arm fallen from her waist to lie across her lap.

 _It was just a dream,_ she thinks with relief, curling in over herself and stroking the lanky appendage against the grain of hair, coarse and unsightly, from knobby wrist to jutting elbow.

_Wait a minute._

She stares at the foreign limb, momentarily perplexed that it isn’t as smooth and delicate as that to which she is accustomed. A signature stench wafts up at her touch, emanating from the very pores of the body beside her like an offensive aura to assault her nose. Alcohol. Huffer cigs. The sour microbial wonderland of the chronically unwashed wrapped in worn leathers.

Ravager.

The events of the prior day flood back.

_Gamora, Titan, Thanos, then…_

_Mantis._

Nebula cradles her head in both hands and doesn’t cry. Unfortunately, there isn’t much time to process, to grieve, as her movements have disturbed her bed fellow.

Kraglin snorts in his sleep then mumbles, “Go to sleep, Bolt,” while raising that same arm to push her down by the chest. When his hand encounters breasts instead of the broad flat chest of his on-board mechanic and occasional bedmate, he pats the area in confusion. Since when had Bolt grown to be so soft and shapely?

Repulsed, Nebula shoves him off their shared cot onto the floor.

“The fuck you do that for? I ought’a whistle, ya right asshole,” Kraglin complains as he sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before turning his bleary gaze on Nebula.

He startles, surprised at the identity of his nighttime companion, then groans. “Stars! We didn’t… did we?” he asks, his voice faltering in resignation as he curses both his habitual drunkenness and extensive stash of moonshine. He hangs his head low and at a tilt, furiously rub-scratching the shorn scalp of the far side of his head to the right of his mechanical fin. He can’t even bear to look at Nebula.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

He would need at least three showers and a thorough de-flea-ing before she would even consider–

Kraglin’s shoulders sag in relief. “Oh thank fuck!”

He lifts one arm to scratch at the pit and stretch while simultaneously yawning wide. This motion introduces a new and exciting brand of rancid to the unique miasma exuding from his person: severe halitosis. Something tells Nebula this olfactory development isn’t so much unfortunate morning breath as a permanent state of being for the man.

He would need much more than a bath or six in order for his rather-vile assumption to even be conceivable. Nebula would need to lose her sense of smell _and_ lobotomize whatever segment of brain is in charge of her standards for sexual partners. Loneliness and grief, even of this magnitude, wouldn’t be enough to entice her into his arms.

He’s a far cry from her prior lover. She can still feel that light grasp on her wrist as Mantis furrows her brow in confusion. _What are you feeling today?_ She’d ask in that soft voice because she truly wanted to know but couldn’t tell. She’d squeeze Nebula just a bit, to ensure her emotional silence isn’t just a fluke, then laugh, tittering and high, at her answer: _Nothing._ It was a thoughtless response the first time that had evolved into an inside joke between the two of them.

Nothing. She feels nothing.

It had been quite a good joke.

Stars, Nebula misses her. Her lovely Mantis, crumbled to ash and carried away on the desert winds of Titan, mixed with the dissolved remains of so many trillions across the galaxy. Her death had been bloodless, painless. Nebula doesn’t know the details of what befell Gamora, but she hopes that her’s had been that same quiet death as well…

Thanos won’t be so lucky.

When Nebula is done with him, he will be a tangled, twisted mess of what used to be a man, begging for death. Nebula hasn’t decided whether she will be merciful enough to grant this last request before she removes his tongue as well. Perhaps first she’ll ask what happened to Gamora… let that be the deciding factor.

“Move over, won’t chu? I got ‘bout three hours left in my night shift, an’ it’s cold out ‘ere.” Kraglin is up again, gently nudging Nebula.

“Find your own bed for the night,” she snaps, capturing his prodding hand by the wrist but resisting the urge to break it. “This one is occupied.”

 

* * *

 

When Nebula enters the common area of the Third Quadrant for morning mess, the remaining Ravagers who survived Thanos’s purge are sparse and uncharacteristically quiet. She takes her tray of rations to a quiet corner.

Unfortunately, she’s joined by Stark. The man looks haggard, dark circles under his eyes from a sleepless night, but he's surprisingly, annoyingly energetic.

“I’ve been thinking about it all night; how we can undo this whole situation. We should head to Wakanda first. If anyone can help, it’s them, and I imagine they are _highly_ motivated. I’ll contact whoever remains of my team from there. Dr. Strange is gone, but perhaps Wong can lend support from his kabal of wizards–”

Nebula stares into her flavorless breakfast mash and wonders if Stark is aware she knows very little of the people or locations he is prattling on about. Sure, some of the names came up last night in passing when they had pieced together the disparate details of Thanos’s final assault, but she is still unfamiliar with the capabilities or proficiencies of their potential allies.

She’s startled when Kraglin drops his tray across from her. He’s a touch wobbly as he staggers into his seat. He still reeks of liquor. Her eyes are drawn to the bottle of moonshine sitting atop his tray.

“I guess it’s 5pm somewhere,” Stark quips, but his audience doesn’t understand the reference.

“Got a call from central command,” he says, taking a deep pull from the bottle. “Our admiral’s vanished.”

Stark drops his gaze. Another victim of Thanos. “I’m sorry.”

Kraglin shrugs. “Don’t be. He was a right jackass. I never liked him, but it does throw the whole organization into a bit o’ chaos. At least Aleta Ogord’s still kickin’. She’s calling all clans back to headquarters as the actin’ admiral in his stead. Told her I had some personal business and would be a week out. Chewed me out, but that’s ‘Leta.”

“You never were good at following orders,” Nebula notes.

Kraglin gives her a sour look then tips the bottle to his lips.

 

* * *

 

Three short days later, along with Tony Stark and Kraglin, Nebula steps onto a decimated Earth, just outside the Kingdom of Wakanda where the remnants of the Avengers and one lone Guardian, Rocket Raccoon, have gathered to regroup, to count their missing and dead, and to lick their collective wounds.

“Where are the others?” Rocket asks her, his tone weary, sounding much older than he had last they spoke. He already knows the answer, but he needs to hear it from her.

“Gone,” she replies, eyes scanning the crowd for the last unaccounted member of their makeshift family. “Groot?”

His head bowed low, one paw scratching his elbow, he shrinks, appearing smaller than he has in years. “Same,” he croaks out.

“So, that’s it? We’re the only ones left then,” Kraglin joins in, looking from Nebula to Rocket then at his feet.

 _Truly, it was the best of us that had perished,_ Nebula thinks but doesn’t say.

 

* * *

 

Stark and the bearded one are fighting, Nebula knows not why. There are accusations of betrayal and talk of reduced strength due to trivial in-fighting; though if that’s what they are arguing about _now,_ it seems counterproductive to continue the trend. The bespectacled one with the calming voice says as much.

There’s a plan drawn up, or rather two competing concepts for the assembled so-called Avengers to squabble over: Damage Control (as proposed by beardy) and the Impossible Dream (as suggested by Stark). The first is a practical consideration and deals with their new reality of a world thrown into chaos as a result of the random disintegration of one-half of the population. In Nebula’s opinion, this idea lacked an integral component: a concrete strategy for killing Thanos. The second is a ludicrous pipe dream stemming from grief that posits they should concentrate their efforts on undoing the Snap. Nebula doubts it will come to pass, but finds the same fault with this plan as she had the first. Of course, Rocket sides with Stark, pouncing on any chance to throw himself into a new project, to be useful, to work towards the goal of reclaiming their dead family. At the very least, it will keep his hands busy and hope alive.

Nebula doesn’t have that same luxury. Whatever this gaggle of idiots has in mind won’t work and will fail to satisfy her burning desire for vengeance, but that doesn’t concern her.

She has other plans.

“Leaving so soon?” Kraglin asks her when he catches her at the foot of his M-ship not too long after she slips out of the Avengers’ collective tantrum. She had been planning to nick it, of course, but it’s not like Kraglin would have been left stranded. Rocket would have offered him a lift up to the Third Quadrant, or his crew would have sent a scouting pod… eventually.

“Stark’s crew are _children._ They are so busy blaming each other when they should be hunting down Thanos to make him pay. I don’t have the patience for petty spats. I am not accustomed to it nor am I one for inaction. I’ll find him myself.”

Kraglin crosses his arms and leans against the broad side of his M-ship. “You don’t think they have a chance? The Avengers.” He deepens his voice, attempting a highfalutin Asgardian accent: “Earth’s mightiest heroes.” He sounds hopeful, but that might just be the Thor impersonation.

Nebula decides Kraglin must be an idiot.

“I saw Stark fight. He is no match for Thanos,” Nebula says, frustration licking at the edges of her words. “The only reason he is alive is because the wizard gave up the Time Stone to save him. It was a foolish decision.”

“And the only reason you’re alive is because Gamora gave up the location of the Soul Stone to save you,” Kraglin blurts out.

He’s right, of course. Nebula doesn’t say anything, turning to leave him at the base of his own M-ship. If he doesn’t move soon, his body will disintegrate in the heat of take-off. Nebula doesn’t care either way.

He captures her retreating elbow. “Wait… wait…”

She stares pointedly at the unwanted contact. To his credit, Kraglin quickly removes his offending hand, taking a step back as he holds both up in the universal sign of surrender. “That weren’t fair. I shouldn’t’a said that.”

She brushes her arm, shrugging off his phantom touch. “Why? You are correct. If Gamora hadn’t…” If Gamora hadn’t saved her, she may have survived. “I’m leaving, Obfonteri. You can’t stop me.”

“Stop you? Now why would I do that? Yer goin’a go kill that bastard, right?” He shifts closer to her. “I want in.”

“This mission requires precision and stealth. Half a Ravager clan on a giant clanking trash heap of a ship is neither.”

“Who said anything about my clan or the Third Quadrant? I already made arrangements with 'Leta and my first mate to have them both absorbed into the 99. Stakar Ogord may be gone, but Aleta’s not. She’s a capable, stone-cold bitch,” he says with a touch of fondness, “but even she needs more crew to keep the Armada afloat, and I just happened to have a surplus.”

“You will likely perish.”

Kraglin shrugs. “Everyone dies, but a man chooses how he goes.”

Nebula can appreciate the sentiment, still–

“You are being dramatic, making rash decisions based on emotion,” she says. Her mission to kill Thanos is completely thought-out and rational, the result of years of purpose, resentment and abuse, and now Kraglin is ready to give up everything for the same cause after a mere week? The man is simply hysterical. “I will give you one night to reconsider. I leave in the morning.”

“Alright, I guess that’s fair…” He circles round her to enter his M-ship. “Hold up,” he calls out from the cockpit. She hears rustling and the screech of metal scraping against metal as Kraglin grunts, “I just need to… git… one thing.”

He re-emerges moments later, pocketing two spark plugs into the interior pocket of his jumpsuit. “There. Now, you ain’t leavin’ without my say-so.”

“…Bastard.”

“It ain’t that I don’t trust ya, but…” Kraglin begins the well-worn lie, scratching the scruff of his chin. “Oh who am I kiddin’? This is my insurance policy to make sure ya keep yer word. They have an old saying on this planet that Pete was rather fond of: ‘Ain’t no honor among thieves.’”

 

* * *

 

Kraglin finds Rocket later, holed up in the labs of the Wakandan palace, where the diminutive genius had taken to reviewing the technological capabilities of Peter’s home-world.

Kraglin wants to tell him he’s wasting his time. Last the Ravagers stumbled through here, Terrans were simple farmers, raising large quadrupedal meat-animals for food and relying on analogue tapes to transmit data. The natives had called it Mi-ser-y for a reason. But this place? Wakanda definitely looked different from what he remembered Terra to be. It’s amazing what changes a mere thirty years can bring.

“Find anything interestin’?” Kraglin asks him instead.

“Yeah, a lot. They have the raw materials and the ideas to really make a lot of great shit. Look. There’s even schematics for some pretty-advanced prosthetics here,” Rocket says, fawning over the plans for a vibranium arm he had pulled up on the holographic interface. “I can definitely work with this. That Stark guy’s on board. So’s Banner. I don’t know how yet, but we’re going to get them back, Kraglin. Everyone. The answer is here; I know it.”

“We?”

“Well, Stark and Banner are okay, considering their shortcomings… You know, being Terran and all,” he explains with a shrug.

Kraglin nods. He is well aware of the shortcomings of Terrans.

Rocket continues, “They used to have an actual competent scientist. Brilliant really. But no one’s seen Shuri since the Snap, so the assumption is she’s dead. They need someone else that understands all this crap.”

“So what? Yer stayin’?”

“Don’t got nothing better to do. At least this way, they have a fighting chance of figuring this out, of bringing them back,” Rocket swipes through additional schematics for weapons, for machines not yet built. “I could use a good mechanic, you know,” he suggests all-too-casually. They both know he’s asking Kraglin to stay for reasons other than simple practicality. Strictly speaking, Rocket doesn’t need the Ravager. As evidenced by the final defense against Thanos, Terra has the manufacturing and manpower to build any number of inventions Rocket and the Avengers can dream up.

Still, Kraglin is tempted. The Guardians… Pete… Pete would want him to stay with Rocket, to make sure the little guy wasn’t alone, especially after Groot’s death.

It’s what Yondu had asked of him, the last time they spoke before he head down to Ego, to his own demise. _Kraglin,_ he’d said quiet, in a way his first mate knew was important and deeply personal. _If I don’t make it out, I want chu to look after Quill._ Kraglin had wanted to protest, to tell Yondu he’d be fine, but the man was persistent. _Take care of my boy._ Pete would have asked the same favor. He was Yondu’s son after all.

Kraglin only feels a twinge of guilt that he has to disappoint yet another dead man.

“I’m going with Nebula. We’re goin’a end him. For Pete. For all of ‘em.”

Rocket is resigned but unsurprised. “Quill wouldn’t have wanted you to go on some pointless revenge quest that will only end in your death. This ain’t for nobody but you.”

Kraglin closes his eyes, fingers steepled at his temple. “I’m goin’a kill him, Rocket, just like he killed our friends, _our family_.” He locks eyes with Rocket, his gaze resolute. “Thanos is a dead man walkin’.”

Rocket clenches his paws into fists to prevent them from shaking some sense into the fool. “Thanos just took out Xandar, Terra, the people of Asgard, and went toe-to-toe with _actual_ god-of-thunder, Thor, to wipe out half the Galaxy. And you think you can just waltz up to him, blasters a-blazing, and do what? Poke him in the eye with Yondu’s arrow?”

“Well, what should I do, huh? Give up? Roll o’er an’ take it. Jus’ let him murder Petey an’ Groot an’ all of ‘em, no repercussions. ‘S that what yer goin’a do, Rat?”

“Fuck no! I’m going to work with these humies and find a solution. A non-stupid technological one that will actually work. Fly under the radar so Thanos don’t know what we’re up to and can’t stop the storm that’s coming for him. We can’t meet him head on using brute force. That ain’t how we go about this one. So… what I’m saying is you shouldn’t throw your life away, not when there’s a better way to get the same results.”

“An’ Nebula?”

“You think we haven’t tried all these years? Gamora, Mantis… all of us? This mission is her life’s goal, and she’s prepared to die trying, more so now that everyone’s dead. There’s no reasoning with Nebula on the subject of Thanos. She’s too impatient, way too reckless. She’s a lost cause, but you? You always knew how to stand back and wait for the right moment to strike, to make it count,” Rocket says.

Kraglin looks away first. They both know he’s referring to the mutiny, where Kraglin watched as Taserface and his traitorous lot spaced his friends, one-by-one, until only he and Cap’n were left. It’s an old wound, one that never quite healed. Rocket rarely prodded the memory, much less weaponized it, but these were desperate days.

Kraglin’s voice is contemplative, registering just slightly louder than a whisper. “Last time I did that, near everyone I cared about died. I couldn’t even save...”

Shaking bony fingers raking thawed-dark trails across blue scarred skin so cold it sticks. A red crest shining dull in starlight. Eyes frozen open, pink irises crackly-black with frost.

“If you meet Thanos head-on, you won’t survive, you crazy bastard,” Rocket finishes, solemnly.

Maybe it was about time.

 

* * *

 

Nebula stands waiting at the base of Kraglin’s M-ship early the next morning. Sunrise casts a dark-purpled tint against her skin and reflects bright glancing off the exposed cybernetics of her left arm and eye. She is impatient, as if she had been there for hours. “You have reflected on your decision.”

“Yeah, an’ it’s unchanged. I’m goin’ with ya.” He says, following her inside to re-install the spark plugs.

She slides into the pilot seat. “Just so we’re clear… I’m not stopping until Thanos is dead. You come with me; I cannot guarantee you will make it back, Obfonteri.”

Crouched under the dash, he pushes aside errant wires then slides the tubes back in place. “Yeah yeah, I know. I ain’t ‘specting to, if I’m bein’ honest, but that jackass killed Pete an’ all of ‘em, an’ he’s got’a pay. No two ways about it.” He re-emerges from the tight space and is only momentarily disoriented to find Nebula in his seat. Nebula is about to challenge him on the issue before he settles into the copilot chair without complaint.

Perhaps Kraglin is smarter than he looks.

“You could stay with Rocket,” she tries one last time to dissuade him. “I’m sure he would much rather have the company. He hasn’t been alone in years, while I, on the other hand, quite prefer it.”

“Already made my decision. ‘Sides… Rocket can be useful here. He seems to think this new crew may have a chance. He’s been here near a week and claims Wakanda is advanced as far as Terran civilizations go. Way more’n whatever produced Pete’s old Walkman, at least. Their lead scientist disappeared with the others, but Stark and Banner might be able to catch up with his help. They have weapons and the tech to maybe turn this shit situation around,” he explains, but his flat tone betrays a certain weariness bred of continual disappointment.   

“You don’t believe that,” she states.

“Rocket does. He’s got’a. Me? I’ve always been a pragmatist myself.”

Nebula initiates the launch sequence. She supposes she should be flattered if his very presence hadn’t been so aggravating. “That’s quite the vote of confidence.”

He shrugs before sitting up a bit straighter. “What can I say? I’m a man of action,” he says gruffly.

Nebula can only stare. “…That sounded better in your head, didn’t it?”

“…Yes.”


End file.
